


On Every Street

by Squirrels_All_The_Way_Down



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Noir, Alternate Universe - World War II, Curtain Fic, Father-Son Relationship, Gay, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mpreg, Star Trek: The Next Generation References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:33:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24365863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squirrels_All_The_Way_Down/pseuds/Squirrels_All_The_Way_Down
Summary: "They were miserable for a few days, and they all turned out fine." -Matt Bevin, Governor of Kentucky 2015-2019, on intentionally exposing his nine children to chickenpox"Next slide, Kenneth." Andy Beshear, Governor of Kentucky 2019-PresentImagining two antithetical politicians across the fanfic trope multiverse.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	On Every Street

Matt moves his history binder to the top shelf of his locker, then back down again. He’s already got everything he needs to take home, but he’s waiting for the crowd twenty lockers down to disperse. 

“Nice job, man!”

“Yeah, congrats, Future President!”

Student Body President Elect Andy Beshear laughs, clapping shoulders and shaking hands with what seems to be the entire Beta Club. Matt shrinks farther behind the door of his locker.  _ Why won’t they just leave…  _ His eyes linger on his Hawkeye printout. Maybe the senior class would have voted for Matt if he had a badass bow and arrow. 

_ Then again, maybe not. _

Matt takes a deep breath.  _ If you step out that door, you are an Avenger.  _ He closes the locker and walks toward the front door, keeping his eyes focused on a car in the parking lot. 

No use.

“Hey, Matt!” It’s the president of the National Honor Society. What’s his name? Ben? Bill? “Matt! Did you seriously only get ELEVEN votes?”

“Wow, eleven?” Some anonymous future frat boy type. Matt gave up on learning their names sophomore year.  _ Another reason no one likes you. _ “That’s ten more than I was betting on! Didja get your mom to stuff a ballot box?”

Matt keeps walking, laser focused on the silver Prius outside. He jumps when his view is obstructed by a kid wearing a button down and a tie.  _ This is high school, dork.  _ But the girls had really gone for that “miniaturized Senator” look. For some reason.

“Seriously, man, good race,” Andy says, sticking out his hand. He appears to be chewing on the inside of his cheek. 

“Yeah, sure.” Matt shakes his hand and tries to push past. The front doors are so close. But Andy won’t let go.

“I couldn’t have done it without you, honestly,” Andy continues. “Every time you took a stance… it told me exactly what NOT to do.” Andy can’t hold his laughter in anymore; it explodes past his lips, spraying Matt in a fine mist. Matt smiles weakly, looking at the ground, and backs toward the parking lot again. The Student Government types let him go, laughing and punching Andy in the shoulder. 

_ You’d never see Hawkeye taking that.  _

Andrea glances at the clock.  _ How is it already 3?  _ She feels like she hasn’t taken a single deep breath in a month. Since the inauguration, it’s been nothing but phone calls, memos, and forms; press conferences into formal lunches into meetings into cocktail parties, and suddenly she’s in the car again, scarfing an English muffin on the way to work. Little fires popping up all over the governor’s office, and everyone looking to Andrea to put them out.

She knows she won’t be in this job forever. She’s got big plans.  _ Which is why you have to kill it as Chief of Staff, Andrea! If you ever want to make it to the other side of the governor’s desk. _

Still, she loves the daily stresses of her job, and she loves working for Governor Bevin.

_ Mattie _ , she reminds herself.  _ She asked you to call her Mattie. _

The governor’s - Mattie’s - head appears through Andrea’s office door.  _ Think of the devil.  _

“Hey Andrea! Just checking in on how the budget analysis is coming.”

“Right! We’ve almost got the first draft ready; I’m just waiting for the final projections from Alicia. Should have it together by 5.”

“Great! I want us to come out of the gate strong, blow the State of the Commonwealth out of the water. The previous administration really left us with a mess, jeez.”

“Of course, ma’am. Mattie. I think you’ll really like these new initiatives.”

“But you’ll have it on my desk tomorrow? We’ve got some crazy weeks ahead of us.”

“You can count on me, Mattie. We’ll get through this together.”

For a moment, Andrea thinks she’s gone too far, but Mattie grins. “Wonderful! Keep up the great work!” Mattie disappears back down the hallway, “How are you?”s and “Great to see you!”s trailing in her wake.

The couple pushes the overladen shopping cart through the Home Essentials section of the Target, banking wide to swing into the Bathroom aisle. A middle aged woman comparing toothbrush holders jumps, dodging the precariously balanced full length mirror hanging out of the cart. 

“Sorry!” Matthew says, adjusting the crock pot so that the mirror slides farther into the cart. “Seriously, maybe we should just check out and come back next week,” he says to Andrew. “It’ll take you days just to unpack the stuff we already have.”

“C’mon, there are only a couple more things on the list,” says Andrew. “Let’s just go look at the curtains. Then we can head back - home.” He grins.

“We can use my curtains-”

“What, the yellow ones? With the red diamonds? Please. Plus, you were the one who said you wanted this new place to be  _ ours _ . Fresh start.”

Matthew groans. “But  _ curtains _ , seriously-”

Andrew swerves down the next aisle. The cart squeaks, one wheel spinning aimlessly. “Here we go!”

Matthew raises his eyebrows. The wall of curtains seems to extend into the distant horizon, an infinite array of colors, designs, and prices. “Oh, God.”

“We’ll need one set for the bedroom and two matching sets for the living room. We decided we were going to repaint the living room, right? That pale blue you liked? So I’m thinking something gray or off-white for that. You can pick for the guest bedroom, though, since it’ll be your office-”

“Or we can get some really big topiaries and put them in front of the windows. Or just paint over them. Problem solved.”

Andrew smiles and weaves his fingers through Matthew’s. “You know we can’t be doing that.”

The brown-haired man holds his cell phone between his ear and his shoulder. His hands are pressed firmly into the bleeding man’s stomach. Blood seeps rhythmically between his fingers. 

“Stay calm,” he says. “Help is on the way. Hey! Stay with me!”

The bleeding man shudders and blinks. He glances at the brown-haired man, then looks away.

“Breathe! Hey. Hey! Look at me, man! I need you to breathe, okay?”

The bleeding man nods, inhales through bloody teeth. Coughs.

“Talk to me. What’s your name?”

“Matt.” The man shudders. 

“Nice to meet you, Matt. I’m Andy.” Andy presses harder on Matt’s side. He groans.

“Tell me about yourself, Matt. Where do you work?”

“Board of -“ Matt makes a wet, squelching cough. “Board of Education.”

“Okay, Matt, that’s great. Just stay with me until the ambulance gets here. What did you have for breakfast today?”

It’s the first day of spring - unmistakeable to Drew, even in the middle of the city. It’s not just the warmer weather or the birds or the trees budding. Overnight, the air has taken on a green hue, like some shitty Snapchat filter. Drew feels elevated, buffeted by it as he crosses First Street toward the Starbucks on Market.

The 7 to 9 rush is Drew’s favorite time of the day. The runners who come in, ponytailed and panting, asking for organic soy milk and fair trade grounds. Soccer moms counting down the days until pumpkin spice returns. Businesspeople ordering grande lattes they’ll carry to their glassy office buildings on Main. He imagines them riding the elevator up the Humana Building or 400 West Market, holding the cups he’s prepared.

Drew has his regulars, of course. Susan and Emile, the older couple who arrive at 7:30 on the dot and hold down the table by the back window. Anna and her brood, screeching in a few minutes before 8, hitting the sugar packets like a ton of bricks and careening back out, trying to get to school before the second bell. Then there’s the guy who comes at 8:35. Unremarkable looking, short black hair, usually on his phone. Polite, but not friendly. Venti mocha. He always gives a different name. 

Today Drew obediently writes “Kevin” on the cup, passes it to Liz, and waves the next customer forward. The man has meandered toward the pickup counter, talking to his phone in hushed tones. Does he think Drew doesn’t notice?

“... will be called the Greatest Generation!” General Andrew Beshear proclaims from the stage, surveying the 13th Infantry Regiment. From the fifth row, Private Matthew Bevin whoops and claps with the rest of the soldiers. He’s ready to show those Krauts what America stands for.

A boy with a mop of black hair sits crying, holding a headless Hawkeye action figure.

“Hey, it’s okay,” says his father, fishing the plastic head out of the grass and screwing it back on. He picks up the child, and his whimpering subsides. “See? All better.”

A Klingon warbird streaks across the viewscreen. Tactical Officer Andre Beshear holds on as the ship is rocked by another explosion.

The captain picks himself up, brushing the blood out of his eyes and into his close-cropped black hair. “Lieutenant Beshear, fire!”

“Yes, sir!” Andre locks on to the warbird, but the deck of the bridge seems to be pulled out from under him, sending him flying toward the opposite wall -

A man in a trench coat stands in a dark alley. Smooth jazz plays from somewhere down the street. He lights a cigarette. A gun clicks.

“Late, as usual, Beshear.”

A second man steps into the light, holding a pistol. “I hope for your sake that you have the money this time, friend.”

“Leave death to the professionals.” The man swings around, gun out. Both fire.

The brown-haired man puts his hand on his friend’s suspiciously round belly, looking incredulous. “What the hell, Mads?”

Mads shakes his head, on the verge of panic. “Dude, I swear, I have no clue what’s going on -”

Matt coughs again, more shallowly this time. Andy is practically kneeling on the wound now, trying desperately to keep the blood inside the dying man and cursing whatever’s holding up the damn ambulance.

“Matt! Focus on me, okay? Tell me about your house! Where do you live? What’s your family like?”

Matt’s eyelids flutter. He’s looking past Andy now, his breathing slow and rasping.

“Hey! You can’t be doing that!”

Matt’s eyes refocus on Andy, then widen, as if seeing him for the first time. 

Andy squeezes Matt’s limp hand, shocked at his sudden look of fear, as Matt screams, “WHY IS IT ALWAYS YOU?”

Coffee is pouring down the walls, staining the new curtains. Andrew is there -  _ our new house  _ \- and Matthew moves toward him but Andrew rips the curtains away, and there’s the television -  _ why is the window a TV?  _ \- and Mattie is on C-SPAN, presenting her 4-year action plan to politely applauding representatives, and Andrea is beaming behind her, surrounded by the fawning Beta Club hacks, but Andrea unzips her face and it’s the 8:35 mocha man -  _ Can I get a name with the order?  _ \- who shatters into a thousand arrows that Hawkeye is firing toward the USS Enterprise.  _ Breathe.  _ The Matt Who Would Be Class President is shaking hands with Drew, as Drew steers his tank through the ruined streets of Berlin. The boy holds his action figure aloft and runs into the full length mirror, disappearing down its narrow corridor of light as it shatters, the pieces tearing the coffee-soaked fabric of the curtains that are the pages of the budget draft that are eleven ballots with a smeared name, and the B is there, certainly, two bold bulbous bulges, but is that an A or an M? One lump or two? And are they not letters at all, but mountains?  _ We’ve come a long way since Budapest.  _ The alley is empty, he thinks, except for the man with the gun, and the man with the fetus, and the fetus with the gun, and the whole kaleidoscope of interlocking men and women with brown hair and black hair, shifting one iteration to the next, the tiny bits of colored glass teetering, turning, falling, splashing bloody droplets onto the sidewalk. 

Matt Bevin wakes up in his bed in the Governor’s Mansion with a thought chasing its tail through his mind.  _ Must be from a dream _ , he thinks. He doesn’t know why the lyric intrigues him, but he lies still for a minute, letting the line orbit his mental processors.

_ And it’s your face I’m looking for on every street…  _


End file.
